Jonathan Kellerman - Silent Partner

Larry said nothing

“Never mind,” said Gordon, walking to the door of the vault and holding it open. “I’m sure you gentlemen have to get back to your patients.”

He ushered us through the black room and to the elevator.

“What happened to Linda Lanier?” I asked.

“Who knows?” he said. Then he began to prattle about the relationship between cultural norms and erotica, and continued the lecture until we left his house.

“Never saw him like that,” said Larry, when we were back on the sidewalk.

“His belief system’s under assault,” I said. “He likes to think of his hobby as something benign, like stamp collecting. But you don’t use stamps to blackmail.”

He shook his head. “It was weird enough watching Sharon, but the second one was something else- really evil. That poor guy humping away, all the while he’s making his cinematic debut.”

Another shake of the head. “Blackmail. Shit, this is getting curiouser and curiouser, D. To make things worse I got a call this morning from an old fraternity brother. A guy Brenda and I both knew in college, also ended up a shrink- behavior therapist, had a huge practice out in Phoenix. Screwed his secretary, she gave him the clap; he passed it on to his wife and she kicked him out, started bad-mouthing him all around town, destroyed the practice. Couple of days ago he walks into the house, blows her brains out and then his own. Doesn’t say much for our profession, does it? Know how to take tests, write a dissertation, and you graduate. Send in your check, renew your license. No one checks for psychopathology.”

“Maybe the psychoanalysts have the right idea,” I said. “Making their candidates go through long-term analysis before being allowed to qualify.”

“Come on, D. Think of all the analysts you’ve met who are total weirdos. And all of us had our training therapies. Someone can be therapized up the ying-yang and still be a rotten human being. Who knows, maybe we’re suspect from the beginning. I just read this article, study of psychologists’ and psychiatrists’ family histories. A whole bunch of us had severely depressed mothers.”

“I read it too.”

“Sure fits me,” he said. “How about you?”

I nodded.

“You see, that’s it. As kids we had to take care of our mommies so we learned to be hyper-adult. Then, when we grow up we look for other depressives to take care of- that in itself isn’t bad, if we’ve worked through all our personal shit. But if we don’t… Nah, there ain’t no simple answer, D. Let the buyer goddam beware.”

I walked him to the station wagon. “Larry, could Sharon’s film have had anything to do with Kruse’s research?”

“Doubt it.”

“What about the University forms Gordon saw?”

“Bogus,” he said. “And illogical- even back then, no university would put itself out on a limb like that. Kruse showed him some piece of bullshit; Gordon believed it because he wanted to. Besides, Kruse never bothered to use any forms for anything- he and the department had a mutual apathy going. They took the bread he brought in, gave him a basement lab no one was using, didn’t want to know what he was up to. Compared to all the deception experiments the social psychologists were doing, his stuff seemed benign.” He stopped, looked troubled. “What the hell was he after, filming her like that?”

“Who knows? The only thing I can think of is some sort of radical therapy. Working through the sins of the mothers.”

He thought about that. “Yeah. Maybe. That kind of weirdness would be right up his alley: total control of the patient’s life, marathon sessions, regression hypnosis- break down the defenses. If in the process she found out that her mom was a bimbo, he’d have her vulnerable.”

“What if she found out because Kruse told her?” I said. “He had access to the Fontaines’ film vault, could have been looking through it and discovered Linda Lanier’s loop. Her resemblance to Sharon was striking- he put it together. Then he researched Lanier, learned some nasty details- maybe even about blackmail. Sharon told me some bogus story about rich, sophisticated parents. Looks like she was hiding from reality. Kruse could have shown her the film when she was under hypnosis, used it to break her down completely, put her completely under his control. Then he suggested a way she could work through the trauma by making a film of her own- cathartic role-playing.”

“Fucking bastard,” he said. Then: “She was a smart girl, D. How could she fall for it?”

“Smart, but screwed up- those borderline characteristics we talked about. And you yourself told me how persuasive Kruse was- he had radical libbers believing whipping his wife was something noble. Those were women he knew casually . He was Sharon’s supervisor, her training therapist, and she stayed with him after she got her doctorate, as his assistant. I never really understood the relationship between them, but I knew it was intense. The film was made soon after she came to L.A., which means he was monkeying with her head right from the beginning.”

“Or maybe,” he said, “he knew her from before.”

“Maybe.”

“Therapy plus cum shots.” He looked grim. “Our esteemed department head’s a real prince.”

“Do you think the University should be apprised of his methods?”

“A little fling at whistle-blowing?” He worried his mustache. “Brenda tells me the slander laws are pretty damned convoluted. Kruse’s got money- he could keep us in court for years- and no matter how it turned out, we’d be raked over in the process. Are you ready for something like that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I’m not. Let the University do its own damned detective work.”

“Let the buyer beware?”

He put his hand on the door handle, looked peeved. “Look, D., you’re semi-retired, your own man, got plenty of time to run around looking at dirty movies. I’ve got five kids, a wife in law school, high blood pressure, and a mortgage to match. Forgive me for not wanting to play Crusader Rabbit, okay?”

“Okay,” I said. “Take it easy.”

“I try to, believe me, but reality keeps squeezing my nuts.”

He got in the car.

“If I do anything,” I said, “I’ll keep you out of it.”

“Good idea.” He looked at his watch. “Got to roll. Can’t say it’s been a yuck a minute but it certainly has been different.”

Two films. Another link to a dead billionaire.

And one amateur movie producer, masquerading as a healer.

I drove home determined to reach Kruse before I left for San Luis the next day. Determined the bastard was going to talk to me, one way or the other. I tried his offices again. Still no answer. I was about to phone his University exchange when the phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Dr. Delaware, please.”

“Speaking.”

“Dr. Delaware, this is Dr. Leslie Weingarden. I’ve got a crisis on my hands that I thought you might be able to help me with.”

She sounded tightly strung.

“What kind of crisis, Dr. Weingarden?”

“Related to our previous conversation,” she said. “I’d rather not discuss it over the phone. Could you see your way clear to come down to my office sometime this afternoon?”

“Give me twenty minutes,” I said.

I changed shirts, put on a tie, called my service, and was told Olivia Brickerman had called.

“She said to tell you the system’s down, Doctor,” said the operator. “Whatever that means. She’ll try to get you what you want as soon as it’s up again.”

I thanked her and hung up. Back to Beverly Hills.

Two women sat reading in the waiting room. Neither appeared in good humor.